Father and Son
by ProfessorHojotheGEN-I-US
Summary: POSSIBLE SPOILERS! Nothing too extreme, but if you haven't finished AC3 yet, then I recommend not reading. Haytham and Connor try to rekindle their relationship. And they'll do it too, even if it means countless headaches, petty arguments, and the occasional tear being shed. Non-canonical, non-time specific, fun little collection of drabbles.
1. The Movie Theater

A/N: This story is merely for fun. If you go into this thinking too logically, you're gonna have a bad time. Periodically, some things aren't going to make sense. But it's silly, and that's the point. Also, it's mostly going to be a collection of short little drabbles, so you won't have to read one chapter to understand another.

With that out of the way, if you haven't completed the game yet, you may not want to read this. There are potential **spoilers**, and I'm not going to be held accountable if you ruin something for yourself now that I have warned you.

* * *

**The Movie Theater**

* * *

The two men began shuffling into the packed theater, various goodies in hand. After arguing on what the optimal sitting arraignments where, Connor arguing that the further they sat from the screen, the better the visual quality while Haytham arguing that sitting in the middle of the theater gives both the best visual and audio experience, the theater was almost completely full, so the two had to count their losses and sit in the front row.

"Ah, isn't this nice, Connor?" Haytham spoke as he sat down comfortably in his chair, placing the food and drinks in their appropriate places. Connor said nothing as he took a seat next to his father, scowl firmly fixed on his face.

"Oh come now," Haytham sighed, removing Connor's hood, "Why the scowl? You should feel appreciative considering I'm taking you to a movie at all. And take off that bow, you're obstructing the vision of the other movie goers."

Connor only grunted, holding firmly to his bow.

"Now young man," Haytham frowned, not enjoying his son's obstinance, "You do as your told."

"I thought this was a free country," Connor frowned harder, grip tightening.

Haytham sighed with both embarrassment and frustration before taking a hold of the bow himself and trying to yank it from his child who was acting nothing short of a baby. However, when Connor refused to let go, Haytham's anger became verbal.

"Connor, stop being such a child and set the bow on the floor, you can have it back after the movie."

"I refuse," was the curt reply, as the two men began a tug-of-war.

"Don't do this," Haytham hissed quietly, noticing that the two were making a scene, "Put the bow down!"

"No," Connor fought back, now standing in an attempt to get a better leg up on the situation.

"Could you two please get your little fight over with? The trailers are sta-"

But the fellow movie goer was silenced as Haytham shoved a small dagger into the man's jugular. Connor sat down slowly, mouth hanging slightly agape, as Haytham lowered the now dead man back into his seat, angry eye contact never leaving Connor.

"You … you killed him," Connor stated aloud, astounded that his father would do that in a theater, of all places.

"He was interrupting, and I find that quite rude," Haytham replied, slipping the dagger back into his petticoat and out of sight. If anyone had seen the Templar kill the innocent man, then they sure didn't say anything.

Reluctantly, Connor slipped the bow off and placed it on the floor next to him. He didn't really feel like creating a bigger conflict which would cause more civilians to die.

"Now then," Haytham remarked, again sitting back in his seat, "Shall we enjoy the show then? Here, have this."

Connor's hand was instantly filled with a box of Reese's Pieces. Once again frowning, the native man opened the cardboard and took a sniff, frown turning a look of disgruntled distaste.

Haytham noticed this and rolled his eyes. Leaning closer to Connor, he half whispered half hissed in his ear, "Oh, come now. Don't tell me you don't like candy."

Connor didn't say anything as he inspected the colorful pieces inside the box.

"They're good, son, eat them."

"But," the assassin spoke meekly, "I am allergic to peanuts."

Haytham's expression went blank for a moment as he was trying to fathom what his son was telling him. "You're … allergic?"

"Yes," was the simply reply in return.

"Oh, don't be silly and just eat them," Haytham turned to once again face towards the screen, ignoring what was sure a small fib on behalf of his child. Always had to be difficult, that one.

"Seriously, Connor?" the older man spoke up once again as they had made it through one trailer and Connor was still staring with distaste into the tiny box.

Sighing for the umpteen time that day, Haytham snatched the candy from his son's grasp, "Fine. Have my Butterfinger, then."

The native man seemed much more pleased with this, as he didn't completely snarl at the candy when he unwrapped it from it's confines.

"Father," the man said quietly, after consuming the bar, "I am thirsty."

"Here, have some soda, then," Haytham replied nonchalantly, enjoying one of the trailers.

"But I would rather have some water."

"Well, all I got was soda. You should have said something while we were in the lobby."

"Then I do not want this," Connor pouted, passing the drink back to Haytham.

"Fine then," Haytham replied, ignoring his son's obstinace.

About a minute passed before the younger man spoke up again, much to the chagrin of his father, "I am still thirsty."

"Then go get a drink."

"I do not know where to go."

"Connor, we were just in the lobby not even fifteen minutes ago. Surely you can manage."

"If I go out there, I am not coming back in."

This got Haytham's attention as he turned to face his son, "Connor, I'm trying to do this to, you know, try and form a relationship with you. Father/son kind of thing, I'm sure you're aware. Why are you making this so difficult?"

"I just wanted some water, father," Connor replied, stone faced and dead serious.

"Fine, fine," Haytham replied, standing up and making his way to the lobby exit, "Let's go get some water then."

"Actually, this soda is not terrible," Connor replied, taking a sip from the abandoned cup, "I do not need that water any longer."

Slapping a hand to his face, Haytham would be surprised if they could even make it through this goddamn movie. It was at this point that a frail theater attendant came confidently up to Haytham and demanded that he sit down or leave the theater, as he was disturbing others. If he would've been a smarter man, Haytham would not had to have killed him and slipped him behind the screen curtains in order to quell the anger that had risen greatly beyond his breaking point due to his son.

But that's if he was a smarter man.

Haytham retook his place next to Connor who was now noticeably happier, and once again put a hand to his face.

"What the bloody hell have I gotten myself into?"

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**End  
**

* * *

****A/N: Like I said, all for fun! And stupidity, there's a lot of stupidity. I hope you enjoyed the first chapter. Reviews are always very appreciated, and thanks for reading!


	2. The First Snowfall

A/N: Wow! Thanks so much everyone for all the positive feedback, I love to hear it and greatly appreciate it!

* * *

**The First Snowfall****  
**

* * *

It was getting colder, and the snow was finally sticking to the ground in soft flakes, covering the earth, the houses, the trees in a white fluffiness. It had been falling consistently for a while now, large mounds of untouched snow only growing in mass. Haytham stepped out of the tiny, wooden cabin that he and Connor had been staying in and shivered a bit in the winter air. Bringing his hands up to his face to warm them, the Templar blew heavily, breath showing clearly in the air.

"Hmm, much colder than I expected," Haytham said with a frown, the snow continuing to fall unrelenting. He had to admit, though, it was a rather beautiful sight. The day was dreary, but what little light the sun could manage to sneak through glinted and gleamed off of the powder, creating a lovely shine. It was almost crystalline.

It wasn't until Haytham noticed the almost disturbing silence that his mind began to more clearly focus on his surroundings rather than the beauty of nature. No birds were chirping, no stream could be heard flowing in the distance. And even his son, who wasn't the quietest person but surely not the most raucous, could not be found. No steps clunking against the wooden floors, no grunts heard as he went about his chores.

Breaking the silence, the older man called out a stern, "Son, where have you gone off to?" His voice seemed to echo through the trees, fading into a quiet string of words. Perhaps it was a bad idea that they had come out this far, where there was no other civilization. How Connor knew about a seemingly abandoned cabin in the first place only served to put Haytham's nerves on edge.

He wasn't as good at this wilderness thing as his son was. He was damn good at sneaking, spying, being stealthy, but … well, he never could quite trudge through the snow, nevertheless be effective in it.

Haytham was about to call his son's name again when something hard and cold smacked into his cheek. Breath hitching, he turned quickly in the direction of the offending pain. Pulling a hand away from his face, he noticed tightly packed snow. But he had no time to gather his thoughts as his other cheek was pelted in much the same way, except by something bigger and much colder.

"A-agh!" Haytham hissed out, face beginning to tingle from lack of feeling, "Who's there?!"

"Heh."

The noise came from above as Haytham turned his head up quickly to lock eyes with none other than his native American son.

"Connor?!" the older man nearly spat out, cheeks now red and completely devoid of feeling, "What are you doing? Get down here this instant, young man!"

The assassin peered down at his father from the branch he had been casually perching in and, lazily, tossed another snowball at the man below him. Haytham dodged this one easily, face now scowling.

"What did I say?" Haytham demanded, the chill from the cold lapping at his fingertips and toes, "Get out of that tree and, for the love of God, stop throwing snow at me."

"I guess you will have to come up here and make me."

The statement was a simple one. Connor's words held no malice or contempt, not even a challenge, really. He simply was having too much fun at his father's expense, and he'd be damned if he was going to "come down" simply because Haytham was requesting it.

"Connor, if you don't come out of that tree, I'll …," the Templar's words trailed off, hoping the promise of whatever he could or might do would scare his son out of the tree.

"You will what, father? Will you climb up this tree and take me out of it by force?"

"W-well, I," Haytham was now at the point of anger. He has never been good at climbing trees. Buildings, man-made structures? Oh, he all but excelled! Trees? No, no not so much.

"Or can you not," Connor's voice seemed almost mocking as it cut through the now silence between them, "climb trees, father?"

"Oh, I can climb a tree, brat!" Haytham spat, face reddening, not only now from just the snowballs that had pounded him earlier.

"I would like to see you try," Connor challenged, a smirk on his face.

Haytham took the bait as he started to run up the tree and grab a few lower branches, only making it a few inches up the tree before returning to the ground below. But before any snide comments could be made from either of the two men, Haytham tried again to climb up the tree, hands clinging desperately to the branches, never fully able to get a good grip.

"Father, I-," Connor began, but didn't get out his thoughts clearly enough before Haytham shushed him quiet and continued his trek back up the tree.

The next attempt, however, did not go as well as the Templar would have hoped.

Taking a different path up the tree, Haytham's foot hit a particularly smooth and icy piece of bark, causing the man to lose his balance. Before Connor had a chance to help, Haytham had reached out, grabbed onto, and snapped a low-lying branch, causing him to fall square on his back.

The older man now laid flat on the ground, breath barely escaping his lips from having the wind knocked out of him, face with look of both embarrassment and disbelief.

Jumping down from the tree, Connor knelt close to his father, and began frantic, "Are you alright? Father, please! Say s-!"

A large wad of snow was shoved roughly into the younger man's face, effectively stopping him mid-speech. Falling backwards himself, the native man wiped the snow away quickly, stunned, and looked at his father, still laying on his back, hand holding the remnants of the snow that had, just recently, been plastered all over Connor's face.

"Got'cha," the older man's voice whispered as air began returning to him, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

Feeling tricked, Connor stood up slowly, mouth turned deeply into a frown. But instead of pelting his father with snowballs, the assassin walked calmly past his father and back up into the tree, Haytham watching the whole time, feeling coming back to his body. Instead of going high up or continuing his relentless assault from before, the man looked at his father and placed a foot on a branch that had quite a bit of snow gathered on it.

"Oh, Connor, you wouldn't," Haytham remarked quickly, realizing what his son was planning. But before he got the chance to make his escape, Connor took a hard stomp on the tree branch, releasing the tightly packed snow which quickly covered his father's body.

Mumbling could be heard from under the snow as Connor looked proudly at his work.

"Score one for Connor."

**-x-o-x-**

"Oh come on, father. You have to admit, it was pretty humorous," Connor said, adding more sticks to the fire the two men had built in order to warm up.

"I find nothing funny about this at all, young man," Haytham replied curtly, trying to keep himself warm in his very wet and very cold petticoat.

Connor merely shook his head at his father. He didn't know if it was from the cold or the fact that his own son had now been witness to the fact that his father, perfect in everything, couldn't climb a tree, but the older gentleman was in a very sour mood.

"And it's bloody freezing out here!" Haytham continued, rubbing his hands together quickly, "How your people managed out here in what little you wear and for such _interesting_ structures that you call a house in beyond me."

Connor would've taken more offensive to this if he hadn't known his father was merely blowing off steam. The young man continued to work quickly, adding more wood to the fire. It crackled and sparked, and, finally, begun to warm the atmosphere a bit.

It was then that the assassin got an idea, however.

"Father! I know what will make you warm!" he exclaimed firmly, a knowing smile in place.

"Hmm," Haytham murmured, cupping his cheek in his hand in order to look at Connor more lazily, "Will you be getting the rest of the blankets from the bed, then?"

"No, we will need those for the night time. If we get them even a little damp, it could spell our doom."

Raising a skeptical eyebrow, Haytham knew his son was one for dramatics, but didn't realize he was apocalyptic as well.

"Okay, then, what do you suggest?" But Haytham's question was missed as Connor, resolve in his eyes, went bolting out the door of the cabin, leaving his father to look on with even more confusion.

"I guess you'll be back then."

**-x-o-x-**

Time continued to tick away with no sign of Connor returning. The Templar, who didn't know if he should feel betrayed or confused, or perhaps both, sat in silence, starring into the fire. It was calming, and the crackling from the wood was a much more welcomed sound than the silence of earlier.

He began to nod off when he felt something large, heavy, and exceptionally moist plop down on his shoulders, covering his whole back in the process. Startled, Haytham didn't make any sudden movements, merely running a hand over the warm liquid pouring heavily over his shoulder.

Bringing his fingers up to his eye level, the older man sniffed it cautiously and then mused, "Hmm. Blood."

"It even has a hood!" Connor's voice abruptly entered Haytham's now racing thoughts, as something heavy and hairy was draped over his head.

While admittedly now warmer than five minutes ago, Haytham stood up and turned to look at his son dead in the eyes. Voice errily calm, he asked very straightforward, "Connor, my dear boy, what did you just drape over me?"

"A bear."

The reply was just as calm and to the point as Haytham expected.

Chuckling while whipping away some of the blood that was trickling down his face, Haytham repeated, "A bear?"

"Well, a bear pelt, to be precise," Connor nodded in satisfaction, proud of what he had done for his father and happy to know that the moaning of being cold would now stop.

The chuckling increased into full-blown laughter as Haytham couldn't help but ask the obvious question, "And the red liquid drenching my entire body? That would be, hmm, blood, correct?"

"Yes, it is very warm."

It all happened in an instant, but before Connor knew it, the two men were wrestling outside in the snow, the blood from the bear dripping from his father's distinguishably peppered hair onto his face.

No words were exchanged as the two wrestled and tromped through the snow, save for the occasional grunt and "I will murder you" death threats that absentmindedly escaped the Templar's lips. Connor was about to resolve to stab his obviously crazed father with his hidden blade when the rough housing stopped.

Looking at the older man's face above him, Haytham was peering off into the distance, mouth hanging slightly open, "What … is this?"

Connor twisted his body out of his father's grasp and directed his attention to what the man had been staring out. Two little figures made out of snow stood in the center of an expanse, one with a poorly made hood, the other with a laughably made tricorne.

"Oh, these," Connor replied, slightly sheepish, "They are, uh, poorly made. I had little time before you would begin to suspect where I had wandered off to, so ..."

"Son, are they … us?" Haytham asked, getting off his son and walking over to the two snowmen. The one that resembled his Connor had a very crude, stern look carved into it's face. The one that resembled Haytham had a visible frown that was so overdone that the older man couldn't help but, genuinely, laugh.

"I know, they are not the best. I was hoping you could help me make better ones."

"Connor, I would be honored," Haytham replied, coming to stand by his son, slapping a bloody arm over his shoulder, bear still clinging to his frame, miraculously.

Should a random passerby happen by this scene, it would look strangely as if a bear had gained sentience and was now tenderly embracing a random native American. And oh, how funny it would have been.

* * *

**Chapter 2**

**End  
**

* * *

A/N: I've got a few ideas for other little situations I'd like these two to get into. If you have an idea for something you'd like to see, please let me know! I'm always open to ideas. Reviews are, as always, greatly appreciated, and thank you so much for reading!


	3. The Beach

A/N: Seriously, thank you so much to everyone who's left me feedback and, hell, even just enjoyed this so far! I know I'm having a blast, but I always love hearing from you guys.

* * *

**The Beach**

* * *

"Well, come on, Son," Haytham's voice carried into the small shack, alerting to Connor that his father was waiting for him just outside. But he wasn't going out, not like this. It was far too embarrassing. He resolved to ignore his father, hoping that he'd eventually give up and go away.

"Connor," the older man's voice called, this time with a stern tone to it, "What are you possibly doing in there that is so wildly complicated? Please don't tell me you need my help."

Pushing out a sigh of frustration, loud enough that the Templar would get the hint, Connor hissed, "No, father, I do not need your help, thank you."

"Alright, so you just happen to be taking forever because, oh, I don't know, you get some sort of kick out of it?

Connor fumed quietly, letting his father say whatever he pleased. Again, hoping that he would tire himself out and they could go home. Tugging at the fabric, the assassin wondered why anyone would ever want to go out in public wearing such a ridiculous garment.

"I'm coming in," Haytham's voice interrupted Connor's thoughts, but before the man could do anything to stop the inevitable, the curtain swung open. Sunlight poured into his eyes, burning his retinas slightly. It was nice and dark in that little shack; and, more importantly, secluded.

"Now, what's all this about," Haytham mused, a smile beginning to form on the lips that once housed a frown, "They fit wonderfully!"

"I hate them," Connor mumbled, a slight blush running across his cheeks as he spoke, not making eye contact with his father who was currently assessing the fit.

"Hate them? Please, Connor, they look fine," the older man said offhandedly, checking the waistband to make sure it was an appropriate fit, "And besides, they're summing trunks. They're not supposed to be high class fashion."

"Yes, well, they are stupid," the assassin crossed his arms indignantly, finally glaring at his father. However, the obstinance was short lived as the younger man happened to make a note of what his father was wearing.

"F-father!" Connor could only point, his verbal usage lost as he stammered to find the correct terms to describe what Haytham was wearing.

The Templar, after finishing his go-through of his son's swimming apparel, looked up quizzically at his son, mouth agape, finger pointing at him, shaking ever so slightly.

"What? Oh, you mean my speedo?" Haytham mused, placing his hands confidently on his hips and giving a cocky smile, "Don't tell me you don't like this either, then?"

"That is barely clothing, father!" Connor's voice recovered, still pointing at the tiny article of what could be barely classified as clothing, "You are exposing yourself in public!"

"Hmph, and barely, son," the older man remarked, giving a slight head nod to the people behind him. Connor followed his father's gesture, noticing many men and women running around, jumping, swimming with practically nothing on as well. The native American didn't know whether to be fascinated or horrified.

"This … is not appropriate," Connor stated sadly to himself, frowning at the men exposing their posteriors as they bent over to reach for a refreshing drink and the women laying on the sand, bikini tops removed to get a more solid and even tan.

An arm swung firmly over the assassin's shoulder, his frown only increasing. Haytham noted the sour look and sighed, "Oh, we'll have fun! Don't think about it too much and enjoy yourself, alright? Should we get some refreshments?"

"Well," the younger man, resolving to give up questioning humanity for now, sighed, "I suppose some water might be refreshing."

"Yes! And it'll clear that head of yours as well, my boy," Haytham smirked, heading towards a concession stand, "Just a bottle of water then, is th- Connor!"

The man stopped mid-sentence as he watched his son walked straight up to the shore line, cup a handful of sea water into his hands, and drink generously from the ocean. Cringing a little, he saw his son's body shake visible with disgust as he spat the salty concoction back into the ocean from whence it came.

A young boy, who happened to be watching Connor, began to laugh at him rather malicious, pointing a finger and mocking him loudly. Haytham watched as his son, not even looking at the child, slapped some sand into the child's eyes, causing him to go running off, crying.

Walking back to where his father was, the assassin grabbed one of the bottles from Haytham's grasp and drank heavily from it until he could finally utter the words: "Alright. We came, we saw, I drank some water. We can go home now, right?"

Haytham simply continued to stare at his son, eyes wide with confusion as to what had just happen. He tried to offer up as his two cents, but could find no words to properly express what he had just seen.

"Connor, did you just …," the British man's words faded, realizing he was still trying to mentally piece together what he had just witnessed.

"Drink sea water? Yes."

The answer was so brutally simple, and yet, held no rhyme or reason behind it.

"And you drank it because?" Haytham offered, waiting for his son to finish his sentence and shed some light on the situation.

"It helps me become one with the water. What are we doing here anyway, father?" Connor almost demanded, obviously not having a very pleasant time any longer, slightly embarrassed by the fact that his father was staring at him like he grown a second head, "If we were just going to drink water and wear silly clothes, we could have done that privately. Well, you could wear the silly clothes, I would just be drinking the water."

"Connor, we are here to have a good time," Haytham recovered slowly, taking his mind off of what he could only assume was strange native behavior, "And to do just that, we are going to go swimming."

"I am not swimming in that," the younger man spat, "I do not enjoy the way the salt water stings my eyes. Nor do I enjoy swallowing it when I am swimming."

"To be fair," Haytham noted, "You're not really supposed to drink it."

"Hmph," the native pouted, still not convinced.

"By the way, even though I don't think you need protection being as dark skinned as you are, but … are you wearing your protection?" the British man questioned.

"Protection? From the water? Ha! I do not need protection from _that_," Connor glared at the ocean, treating it as if it were now an enemy.

"No, you dolt," Haytham sighed, "Protection from the sun."

"Hmmm, I guess it is rather bright out here," Connor noticed, for once today, feeling the warm sun on his skin. He thought it felt rather nice, actually.

"Well, here, put this on, then," the older man said, handing Connor a small tube.

The assassin glanced at the tube, unsure of what exactly his father wanted him to do with it. He squeezed a little on his finger and noticed a white cream. Glancing over at his father, Connor saw him applying some on his nose and under his eyes.

"I … do not get it," the younger man remarked, still holding the tube.

"It's to protect your eyes from the sun, get it?"

"That is pretty poor war-paint, Father," Connor noted.

"It's not war paint, it's for protection. You know, so your eyes won't shrivel up and fall out of your head."

"They … can do that?" Connor looked at the bottle fearfully.

Deciding it was best to not explain the intricacies or embellish on his little white lie, Haytham merely nodded his head, hoping his son would stop being obstinate for a change and just listen to what he had to say.

After applying the finishing touches, Haytham rubbed his hands together and took a deep breath, inhaling the salty air, relishing in the moment. It was an absolutely gorgeous day. There wasn't enough people to make this day stressful, but not few enough to raise suspicion or concern either. The sun was high in the sky, sparkling against the water, dancing with the ebb and flow of the waves.

"Ready, Connor?" the man asked, turning towards his son.

"Yes, I am ready," his son replied, a stern expression on his face.

"Oh, Connor, really?" Haytham blurted out, hand instinctively going to his face.

Not only had Connor succeeded in listening to his father by applying the sunscreen, but he had created intricate patterns as well. Circles and dots lined his face, a few stray lines here and there emphasizing others. The most ridiculous look of all, however, was the two bear prints Connor had made on his two pectorals. Even his arms were decorated with little shapes and symbols.

"Well," Haytham sighed, exasperated, "at least you're artistic."

"Yes, these symbols give me strength and courage to tackle whatever obstacles may come," his son answered, very serious in the answer that he gave.

"Good!" the Templar piped up, "Because we're getting in that water!"

**-x-o-x-**

If Haytham had truly realized how difficult this was going to be, he would have abandoned the beach idea long ago.

He had tried everything to get his son in the water; he swam around without him, he splashed water at him, he floated on his back, he pretended to be enjoy interacting with other swimmers. Alas, Connor wouldn't move past the shore line. Yes, he stuck his toes in every once and while, but as soon as a mild tide would come in, he'd back away with the water and casually walk back with it as it entered the rest of the ocean.

Cultured hair clinging to his neck, Haytham floated around silently, trying to think of a way to get his son in the water with him. It's not like the boy had never swam, quiet the contrary! He just couldn't wrap his finger around why he was being so picky today. He knew the salt water tasting was an issue, but Connor, or so he would like to hope, surely wouldn't hold grudges for this long, would he?

"Well, I suppose there was that issue with his land," Haytham mused to himself, hand on chin in thought.

The assassin stood on the shore firmly, feet beginning to dig into the sand. He knew his father was plotting a way to get him the water, but there was just no way Connor was going for a swim. Not in this water, anyway. Now, if he was in the forest, where the water was fresh and clear, he could probably even get some hunting done. What was he supposed to hunt here? Poorly dressed elderly men with no hips with which to keep their swim trunks up?

But his thoughts ended suddenly when he realized his father was nowhere to be found. Scanning the surroundings yielded no results either.

"Father," the words were out of his mouth even without thinking, eyes still scanning, heart racing. Could he be dead, gone, in danger, plotting? All these thoughts ran through Connor's head. Unlucky for him, he didn't notice that tide was coming ashore.

The water lapped around his feet in quick spurts, when finally, he felt something solid wrap around both his ankles. Before he could make a move to do anything, he was thrust into the ocean, squeezing his eyes and mouth shut forcefully before any water could enter.

He was disorientated, confused, but clear headed enough to swim towards the light. Upon breaking the water's surface, he quickly inhaled, taking in as much fresh air as he could. And it wasn't until uproarious laughter entered his ears that he realized that he had played right into his father's little trap.

"Haha, you should have seen your face, Connor!" the older man continued to laugh, deep voice coated with a just a hint of glee, "Oh, just priceless!"

"Hmph, I suppose you win this one, old man," the assassin frowned, floating besides his father in the water, hair sticking to his face and neck.

"Oh, come now," Haytham's laughter began to die down as he whipped a tear from his eye, "Don't be such a poor sport. I had to get you in here somehow, didn't I?"

"I told you, I did not want to swim," Connor's voice held a slight edge, but he made no move to swim back to shore.

"Shall we make a sport of it, then?" Haytham challenged, smoothing his hair out.

This perked his son's interest as the man turned to look at his father, one eyebrow raised, "You want to challenge me to swimming?"

"Oh!" the Templar's voice held an amused tone, "Think yourself a high and mighty swimmer, eh?"

"The best there is," Connor smirked, eyes filled with excitement.

"Well, then," Haytham floated by Connor smoothly, "You'll just have to prove it, won't you?"

The two men swam for a long time after that, taking only brief pauses to get refreshed, but it was back in the water they would go. The sun began it's decent, the patrons began packing up for the day, but the two men continued their fun.

Noticing the day was nearing a close, Haytham paused his swimming to float for a bit and catch his breath, "Connor, I believe it's time we got going."

"Not yet, father," his son swam quickly past him, strong arms carrying him easily through the unsteady current, "I have not exhausted all my energy yet. Or are you giving up?"

"Certainly not," the British man tisked, making his way slowly towards shore, "But the tide is beginning to rise quicker now, and we've been swimming for hours. We can always come back another day."

However, the native American continued to ignore his father, swimming and diving through the water, making his way farther and farther from shore.

"You get out this instant, young man!" Haytham called sternly, only slightly able to make out his son's features as he continued to swim a great distance.

"Why not come get me then, Father?"

It was Connor's proud face that he saw last before a large tide completely engulfed his son, submerging him the watery depths. Much how Connor had scanned for his father earlier, Haytham was now doing the same, eyes wide with fear when his son didn't reemerge.

Seconds seemed to turn to minutes which seemed to turn to hours as Haytham waited, wandering the shore line as the tide only grew more violent.

Finally, when there was no sign of moment, Haytham hissed violently to himself, "Goddamn boy," and swam back out into the current, unsure if even he could fight these waves.

"Connor!" Haytham called loudly, hoping to get a sign of life now that he had swam out into the ocean and could get a better look around. A wave forced him under the sea as well, surprising him and clouding his vision if only for an instant.

Peeling his eyes open slightly, salt water stinging and burning, Haytham searched desperately for his son. But all he could see were large expanses of dark, ominous water. Recollecting at the surface, Haytham grabbed as much air as his lungs could take and dove back under. His arms and legs worked harder, eyes strained farther, head began swirling with every possible scenario of what could, or might, happen.

It was at the last moment, when he was resolved to go back to the surface for more air, when he saw a mass floating in the water. Giving one last push with his legs, Haytham struggled to hold enough air in his body to reach his target, which he could only hope was his son, and not pass out in the process. Reaching a hand out, he grabbed something fleshy. Yanking it close to him, and as what little light could penetrate the ocean surface indicated, that this was most definitely human; his son.

Wrapping an arm around his waist, Haytham dragged the seemingly lifeless body through the water, mind becoming hazy as his vision became smaller and thoughts became less clear. And just when he thought he couldn't make it one more stroke, his finger tips brushed the surface, cold air tingling his nerves and bringing back that extra push that got his head, and Connor's, above water.

The water had flung them violently back and forth, it seemed, but thankfully, they were just close enough to shore that Haytham figured he could manage without too much difficulty. He had gotten this far; the epic saga would be far from glorious if they both managed to drown, inches away from salvation.

**-x-o-x-**

The sand felt surprisingly warm for how late in the day it was. Connor's body, however, felt horribly cold. Haytham barely had time to process this as he immediately began trying desperately to resuscitate his son.

"Oh, come on, Connor," Haytham's voice was desperate, a low rumble, hands pushing on the younger man's chest, "You cannot die on me, boy."

Holding an ear close to his mouth gave no insight. No air could be felt, no sound could be heard.

"Goddamn it," Haytham hissed, eyes stinging from what he mused was the salt water. Surely not tears. There was no way he was crying at a time like this.

"Wake up, Connor," the Templar's voice began to waver, face going from desperate to hopelessness, "Please son, please."

Giving one last deep breath, Haytham pinched the assassin's nose shut and breathed deeply into his son's mouth. This would be all he had left. If this didn't work, then not even Haytham would have the energy to continue.

Warm salt water rushed past his lips, and even though Haytham, instinctively, gagged and coughed, he had never been more happy in his life.

Connor's coughs were loud and constant, water flowing out his mouth and onto the sand below his head. Haytham immediately turned the younger man on his side, allowing no obstruction as the native American cleared his throat. Slowly, Connor's eyes blinked back to consciousness, and he gazed up as his father wearily.

"Father, I -"

But his words were stopped as Haytham grabbed the man in a tight hug, fingers almost digging into his back.

"I am so grateful that you're alive, Connor," Haytham's words were pure, anxiety and fear melting away from his tone.

Connor's eyes began to water slightly as his father's grip held steady. He hadn't felt this sense of caring and belonging since his mother died, and he wrapped his arms tightly around his father, burying his head into his shoulder, crying silently as the tears ran softly from his eyes. He had the fleeting thought that he hoped his father would dismiss the tears as the water from the ocean, but in that same regard, he also didn't care.

The embrace continued for a bit, the two men not saying a word, merely just grateful for each others presence. It wasn't until Haytham sternly cleared his throat that Connor released his grip.

"Connor, why, pray tell, are you naked?"

"Oh. I hated those shorts. They made it difficult to swim in."

"And you took them off … when, exactly?"

"A few hours ago," the assassin stated calmly.

Haytham had to laugh at the fact that Connor, the man who couldn't stand to wear a simple pair of swimming trunks, could be so comfortable in absolutely nothing. It seemed so odd, yet maddeningly appropriate at the same time.

The sun continued it's descent beneath the mountains, sky beginning to slowly fill up with stars as the two men sat on the beach a bit longer, enjoying the sights and sounds. Their conversation was amicable, no hidden malice or ulterior motives hidden behind their speech as they simply enjoyed each others company.

"And then I said to him, I said, 'You know what? That was my elk! If you do not give him back, I will hunt _you_ instead!' Oh, it really got him going, haha," Connor's laughed echoed that of his father's.

"Haha, very good. Oh, and son?"

"Yes, father."

"Put some bloody pants on, would you?"

* * *

**Chapter 3**

**End**

* * *

A/N: Little bit of drama and touching family moment in this chapter, oh yes. I combined my idea of going to the beach with a lovely reviewer's idea of drowning! Ain't nothing like a little father/son bonding with a near death experience, am I right?

If you have any ideas for a theme or something you'd like to see these two do, please let me know! I love getting new ideas and insight. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated, and thank you so much for reading!


	4. Ziio

A/N: Sorry for the delay on this chapter. With the holidays, work's been hectic. But I must continue to thank you all for your amazing reviews and support! Nothing warms my heart more. I've been getting a lot of requests for a chapter about Ziio. And that sounded freakin' cute. Though, I made this chapter sort of bittersweet, so you'll have to forgive me for the lack of humor.

I promise it's still decent though, haha.

* * *

**Ziio**

* * *

The two were both currently involved in a mission of sorts. Somehow, by some chance, they were both going after the same guy. Most likely not for the same reasons, and certainly not disclosing any of that information to each other anyway, both Connor and Haytham were currently stalking silently through the forest, Connor using the trees as cover while Haytham traversed from bush to bush.

"You know," the assassin commented idly, watching his father sneak around below him, "I could still teach you how to climb trees. It would be much more efficient than what you are doing."

"Perhaps," Haytham replied to his son, a bit of bite in his tone, "But now really isn't the time, is it? We do have a mission to do and haven't really the time to linger about learning random skills."

Connor merely rolled his eyes at his father's words as he continued his trek through the trees. He knew, deep down, his father really wasn't as angry as he was coming across. It was most likely due to the initial embarrassment Haytham had to face of not being able to do everything his son could do and be better at that. But the Templar also appeared to be considerably focused. He hadn't had the pleasure of assisting his father on a mission before, since they would usually split up, so he wasn't sure exactly how his father went about things.

"Eh, this goddamn mountain!" Haytham grunted, scaling a particularly rocky, unsteady part of the hillside.

Or he could just be angry.

The conversation went silent once again as the two continued up the mountain. It was not the tallest spot in the area, but it was perfect for their needs. Supposedly, if the two men's information was correct, their target was supposed to pass in a convoy directly on a road under the mountain's side sometime around midnight. The sun hadn't yet begun to sink from the sky, but they weren't positively sure on the time frame. They had questioned many men previous to making their trip, but the only concrete answer they could get was that the convoy would pass by that night. Midnight happened to be mentioned only by a few.

Upon reaching the top, Haytham took a long breath as he sat down on a large rock. It was at that same instant that Connor hopped out of the tree to join his father in waiting.

"You're quite good at that," Haytham remarked, his tone both slightly out of breath but impressed none the less, "How did you learn to climb so well?"

Connor's facial expression was stern as he looked out over the expanse, "From my mother."

"Ah," was the single word uttered by the older man as he, too, turned his gaze from his son and looked out over the forest. The mood wasn't necessarily ruined, but there was a definite strain hanging in the air between the two. It was known that Haytham hadn't ordered that Connor's village be burned down, but nevertheless, he wasn't there for either Connor or Ziio. Not out of malice, of course. He had duties, obligations … all of these sounded hallow, however.

"She was … quite the climber," Haytham tried weakly to break the silence, his voice almost catching in his throat.

"Yes, she was very good," Connor agreed, still not breaking his gaze with the sky.

"I do remember once time," the Templar began with a tiny chuckle, a genuine smile forming on his lips, "I was trying to catch your mother. Only to ask some questions, of course, and she was jumping from tree to snow packed tree. My god, I must've chased that woman for at least a mile. She then proceeded to watch me get attacked by some wolves, if my memory serves me."

"Ha, that sounds rather stalkerish," Connor smiled, a bit of mocking in his tone, "I suppose she had to save you from the wolves, too?"

"Well, I'm not so incapable," Haytham frowned, sitting now more casually on the rock, "This hidden blade isn't just for show, you know."

"Well, I am impressed," the assassin nodded his head, "I was going to say that the whole situation must have been extremely awkward for you."

"Oh, it was," the older man admitted, "I barely knew your mother, and my wolf hunting skills _were_ a bit lackluster, to say the least. Still, I would never change that day for the world."

Connor looked over at the Templar, noticing that his father's tone had gone from cheery to, admittedly, a bit sad. Haytham didn't seem to be looking at anything in particular, eyes not scanning the expanse. He just seemed to be … looking, but not seeing. As if his eyes were open, but he was not truly there.

"She was a good woman," Haytham continued, "She helped me in her own ways, but she was very cunning, strong, independent. Ha, she had a bit of a rough charm that I found endearing. But, my god, when you looked into her eyes … she was full of nothing but spirit and resolve."

"It sounds like you really loved her," Connor commented, all attention now directed at his father.

Haytham was silent for a moment, once again looking at everything and nothing at the same time, and a tiny smile played at his lips when he finally spoke, " … I really did."

There was a bit of anger and happiness and confusion that laced the assassin's emotions as he took in how blunt his father was being. This man, the Templar, his father who had left his mother on her own, who had left her to raise Connor by herself, who didn't come to help when she was being burned alive. And yet, he couldn't bring himself to start yelling out truths like he usually would. This same man who had left him and his mother, who had seemed to want nothing to do with him, was being so openly honest and sincere … it was hard for Connor to be upset.

The younger man couldn't even utter a sentence. He didn't know if what would come out would be a desperate plea for answers, he didn't know if it would result in another heated argument. He wanted to know more, but he was almost scared to know the truth.

"You seem conflicted," the rich British accent broke the silence, Haytham's original tone of eloquence and slight smugness returning as it did, "Surely you're angry with me. I'm surprised I haven't received an earful yet, truth be told."

"I want to be angry. And at the same time, I cannot be," Connor sighed, frustrated, "I just ..."

"Can't understand what happened and why?"

It was almost as if Haytham had taken his son's words right out of his mouth. The native man only nodded his head in agreement, gaze now fixed on his father.

Haytham sat back a little as he spoke, but his body seemed to stiffen ever so slightly. This was not something he thought he would ever have to deal with, much less have a heart to heart with his own flesh and blood about. The Templar sighed, bracing himself for what was to come, "I don't know how much your mother told you about me. Regardless, the first impression I made upon you obviously wasn't the most charming. Apologies for that, by the way. It's not that I didn't love you or your mother, and it would've been nice to watch us all grow as a family, but … I had obligations to the Order, and I couldn't just abandon them."

"I would think a simpler life, where you were not concerned with killing and betrayal, would be a much more important obligation," Connor interjected, his voice slightly bitter.

Haytham winced at the tone slightly, because yes, the boy _was_ right. However, "Life isn't that simple, Connor. What you want and what you need to do are completely separate things. My life was immeasurably different from hers, from your tribes. And I couldn't settle down and live in the village as much as she couldn't come to the city and live with me."

"But why?" Connor pushed, voice now hinting at anger, "You both had feelings for each other, didn't you? If you truly cared for each other, I do not see how hard it would be to create some sort of life together, to stay together; for her, for ..."

The younger man's words immediately halted in his throat. He dare not say what he almost said, even though he would occasionally think it. More so when he was younger, though. He was hoping his father didn't pick up on what Connor was about to say.

"Son," Haytham's voice was soft when he spoke, sad, "It was never malicious or ill intentioned. I never wanted to hurt you, never really wanted you to know the kind of life I lead, I suppose."

"Yes, well, that did not work out so well, did it?" the assassin snapped at his father, mostly unintentionally. His feelings were, once again, boiling to the surface. However, there was really nowhere for either of them to retreat to as they sat on the mountain's ledge, sun slowly sinking into the distance, sky now being painted with radiant oranges, pinks, and purples.

"Really? Arguing about this again?" Haytham retorted back in return, voice rising, "I am sorry, Connor, I truly am. I know this isn't the ideal life, hell, who could really argue that even such a thing exists? But I cannot change the past; I can wish all I like, can pray until my hands are sore, I can hope and feel guilty about it every night, losing sleep, mind never truly at ease … all over something I cannot fix!"

"But you could have rectified your mistakes! You could have made amends!"

"And what good what that have done, hm? You were already so angry with me when you first laid your eyes on me, that anything I could have _said_ or _done_ would never have been enough!"

"It never hurts to admit when you are wrong! Though, excuse me, I suppose you are above apologizing!"

"I am _sorry_, Connor! I am sorry that your village burned down, that you had to live your life without a father, that I am such a fuck up, but even if I say all of that and mean it, which god damn me if I don't, _none_ of that is going to bring your mother back!"

The two men were currently standing having abandoned their positions on the rock, Connor's hands curled tightly in Haytham's petticoat, knuckles turning white the more he clenched. Eyes locked fiercely, faces only inches apart, so that their breath easily swept through the other man's hair. But when the last of the Templar's statement had left his lips, the younger man went limp. Fingers loosened their grip and legs gave way as Connor slumped back to the dry earth below.

He gazed at his hands, the same hands that had so many times been scratched and bloodied when he was first learning how to climb trees. The hands that had been covered by his mother's so many times as she cleaned and soothed and encouraged. The same hands that reached for his mother's body as she burned beneath the flaming rubble and debris.

And he then buried his face in those same hands.

Haytham said nothing as he looked down upon his son's hunched frame. He may have been crying, mourning, doing absolutely nothing, but the older man gave his son proper respect and silence. He, too, looked at his left hand, the hand that Ziio had so eagerly placed hers in while in the cave that day. Haytham remembered it was warm, comforting. He had never felt so sincerely comfortable and calm with any other woman, and what's more, any other person than with her.

Finally, he placed that same hand upon Connor's head, trying in his own way, to comfort his son.

Normally, this would have prompted Connor to immediately fling the offender over his shoulder and onto their back. Not only did he not have the mental strength to care at the moment, but he knew it was his father. And he knew he was being sincere.

It was at this moment that the younger man's last memory of his mother decided to replay in his head like a record. Of her face, obvious with anguish, but her words were strong, promising him that she would always be with him. And sitting here in the forest, with the father he thought he'd never meet, in the strange predicament that they were on opposing sides, in knowing that he would eventually have to kill him … even if those feelings were changing, Connor felt an odd sense of comfort. Because in that instant, both his father and mother were with him.

Just like a family.

"You're a good man, Ratonhnhaké:ton."

The assassin looked up from his hands quickly, catching a glimpse of his father's smiling face; genuine, compassionate, and ever just so slightly sad.

"Well, looks like our convoy has arrived earlier than expected! Those few gentlemen must have been trying to throw us off, how very clever of them," Haytham chuckled deeply, "Shall we be off?"

The Templar took off swiftly down the mountain side, leaving Connor to look on, still slightly dazed from what his father had said. His name; his true name.

It felt like hands on his back as the wind picked up behind him, pushing the younger native man ever so slightly forward down the mountain. And, surely, Connor imagined it when he could hear his mother's voice whisper almost silently, proudly, in his ear, "Go, my son." But the smile on his face was real. The comfort and encouragement he felt in his heart was most certainly real as well.

Connor moved down the mountain quickly after his father. And for once since he was young, even with all the kindness Achilles had shown him and the people of the homestead had given him … he didn't feel so helplessly alone.

* * *

**Chapter 4**

**End  
**

* * *

A/N: Like I said, very little humor. Still, I enjoy writing touching sentiments like this from time to time, so I hope you enjoyed it as well. As always, I love hearing new ideas and insight, and reviews are epic and always make my day! Thank you so much for reading!


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